


Catharsis

by KoreArabin



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Bondage, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, M/M, Masochism, References to Torture, Sadism, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:17:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin





	1. London

He’s face down on the bed, resting his face on his folded arms, legs spread as wide as possible, muscles flexing under the tattooed monochrome of his back.

He jumps slightly at the cool, soft touch on the back of his thigh and the gentle scratch of fingernails, tracing lightly between his legs and teasingly over his balls.

“Relax, Lucas. You’re gonna like this, honey.”

The snap of the cap of the tube of lube, then coldness between his buttocks, and those fingernails again, touching him, touching him _intimately_ , stroking his anus, encouraging it to relax. He breathes deeply, steadily. 

This has been difficult for him, not simply because of the memories of what he endured in Lushanka, but because he’s been emotionally numb, _dead_ , since his return home.

Even with the nightmares, the flashbacks, the horror of reliving those years of solitude and pain and betrayal, Lucas's physical response to the touch of his fellow humans has remained - miraculously - apparently unimpaired. He imagines it must be because he returned to his work at MI5 so quickly after his return. If he had gone to a safe-house and caught up on eight years of TV, as was suggested, he would have done nothing but thought about what had happened. Not-thinking is easier, and running from one threat to the next at work is the perfect way to not-think about the past.

But his emotional response is another thing entirely. Sarah, in the normal course of things - the normal course of things as they were when things were still relatively _normal_ , eight years ago - would not have been the sort of woman with whom Lucas would have had a relationship. She’s too controlled, too detached, her glossy adamantine shell at the same time too matte, too airbrushed. Too new world, when Lucas's consciousness is buried so deep in the past.

Nothing like the deep, passionate, Elizabeta, in whose impossibly dark, soulful, eyes Lucas could see and almost taste the brilliant, crisp, unending vastness of the steppe. Elizabeta.

But Sarah’s perfect, for this; for a relationship which, whilst it does not engage him emotionally, offers physical satisfaction and a degree of comfort and companionship and, Christ knows, Lucas needs something of that. And he is certain that Sarah feels exactly the same; he knows how to satisfy a woman and he is increasingly enjoying, in a most probably fucked up, but cathartic, way the predatory, sadistic, side that Sarah has introduced to their fucking.

So when she presses one of those long, beautifully manicured nails hard into his anus, whilst Lucas’ll hiss quietly in discomfort, he’ll embrace the pain, because in the end even pain is so very much better than being dead.


	2. Russia

Lucas knows that there is one place in which one's privacy, intimacy, and integrity should be inviolable. One's body should be and, in the normal scheme of things _is_ , a temple, a _shrine_ , a familiar territory of personal history and sensation memory. 

Darshavin invades, defiles and desecrates his temple, deliberately and repeatedly and, sometimes, publically. Not that Lucas can focus for long on the other wretches huddled in cells beyond the stark iron bars at the side of the tunnel-like torture room, but he imagines he can feel their eyes on him, and he can smell and taste the acrid tang of fear. Sometimes it chokes him.

Lucas's own body becomes his worse enemy, just as Darshavin intends. Physical agony makes his body Darshavin's accomplice, a constant channel of communication between the torturer and the tortured. It is human contact and human intimacy in its most perverted form. 

Darshavin tortures his body, pervades his psyche, and possesses his mind. Deprived of any contact with others and starved of human interactions, the prey bonds with the predator. When his bodily needs are denied – food, water, pissing, shitting, sleeping – as they are, often, another tool with which to degrade and dehumanise him, Darshavin is always there to restore them, fostering a humiliating dependency between the two of them.

The torture and isolation robs him of everything familiar; Lucas has nothing to hold on to: his family, his home, his language, even his name. And Harry. Why does he not come? Why is he not there to rescue Lucas from this hell? 

Lucas knows, as of course do all the MI5 team, about the small kindness perception, knows that he is hotwired, in threatening and survival situations, to look for any evidence of hope; any small sign that the situation may improve. He hates himself when he has such overwhelming feelings towards Darshavin, when he brings him food or water after days of deprivation, or treats his wounds after a savage beating. 

Feelings of such gratitude; feelings of such immense - _love?_ Lucas knows he is going mad.


	3. London

"Please, take me deeper. Please, Sarah. Deeper."

"Hush, honey. You know I will, You know I'll push you. I'm gonna hurt you, but I'm not gonna injure you, Lucas, OK, honey?"

"Sarah - just - please!"

oOo

The pain is a catharsis of a sort. It's a fucked up catharsis; Lucas has no doubt of that, but afterwards he feels calmer. Like the pain has ripped something small and cold and dead out of his belly, detached just one little parasitic capilliary rootling from his spine, made room for Lucas to live inside himself again. Like he's been purified.

It clears his head. It grounds him. Why it is so much more effective when the pain inflicted is of a sexual nature, Lucas won't let himself think about.

oOo

"Lucas, honey, you're bleeding. Do you want me to help you?"

"No, it's OK. I'll look after it. Thank you, Sarah."

Limping into the bathroom, he shuts the door behind him and stares at himself in the mirror. The man there stares back at him. 

Objectively, Lucas knows it's his face, his body, _him_ \- the height, the dark hair, the blue eyes, the slightly crooked nose - but he can't _see_ him, any more than he can see the mirror itself without his face reflected in it. 

He's becoming reflected in everything around him and he's going to shatter.


	4. Russia

Lucas is still sitting exactly as he left him. Shoulders set, despite the tight, rough cords binding his wrists together behind his back. Eyes hidden beneath lowered lashes, yet he doesn't need to see them to know that they’re still blazing icy blue defiance. 

A difficult one, this. Dark hair drying into soft damp curls at his temples and the nape of his neck belie the dousing they gave him after the last beating. He’d yelled and twisted to try to escape the icy jet from the power hose, until he’d exhausted himself and simply hung, dripping, from the hook and chain secured to the cell's ceiling. All in all a rather tame morning of interrogation, given the other methods Darshavin has at his disposal.

They cut Lucas down when his hands start going blue from cold and compression, and manhandle him bodily into the chair, chaining his ankles to its legs and binding his wrists with a length of tough, rough rope. As a final precaution they loop a leather belt around his biceps and cinch it tight, pulling his elbows together as far as possible without dislocating his shoulders. The short chain looped around the metal tubing of one of the chair’s legs and locked to the heavy iron grille of the drain in the centre of the cell keeps the chair in place.

~~~

Darshavin is getting seriously pissed. The beatings, the shocks and even the waterboarding haven’t broken Lucas. At first he at least responded to the interrogation, even if it was to tell them he couldn’t answer their questions. But now, when he's not screaming, he just sits, silent and defiant. 

So different to the Lucas he encounters when they sit companionably together, watching the birds on the marshes, or discussing English Victorian social novelists. The Lucas that Darshavin has developed a grudging liking for, despite his resentment at what he perceives to be Lucas's apparent God-given _perfection_. Seriously, the man is an Adonis, tall and well-formed, clear-eyed and clear-skinned, intelligent and perceptive. Probably born with a silver spoon in his mouth, not poor and obscure and having to work so hard to get to where he is in the FSB today, like Darshavin. Not relatively short and stocky, and dark and muddy-complexioned, like Darshavin. So attractive, lusted after by women and, no doubt, men, if the occasional vulgar remarks by the guards are anything to go by. Not the sort of man who would ever look twice at Darshavin. 

~~~

Lucas doesn’t look up as he walks around to stand directly in front of him. Darshavin is seized by a sudden anger, a desire to make the other man react. He wants to see, in Lucas's eyes, that he acknowledges his situation. That Darshavin can do anything, _anything_ he wants to him. That Lucas _fears_ him.

Darshavin's palm connects loudly with Lucas’s face, snapping his head sharply back and to the side. Lucas gasps as Darshavin deftly backhands him hard, sending his head reeling in the opposite direction. Blue eyes lock with his brown, glittering with shock and anger, and defiance. Just for that, he backhands him again, lip curling at the sensation of metal tearing flesh as his signet ring stripes the prisoner’s face with blood. 

There's something else in Lucas's expression, fleetingly, as he looks up at him again. Something he can hardy grasp. Disappointment? Did Lucas really expect this never to become more personal? Darshavin has never had a prisoner not break under him, so it's a question of professional pride, even if it wasn't Lucas he's torturing.

Lucas snarls and spits, blood and saliva pooling wetly on the toecap of Darshavin’s immaculately polished boot. For a moment, he can only stare at his besmirched shoe, before kicking hard at the chair and toppling it on to its side. Lucas falls heavily, his ankles still chained to the chairs legs as his upper body lands on his bound arms, twisting them awkwardly beneath him.

Lucas is unable to do much to defend himself as Darshavin kicks at his body – his back, aiming for his kidneys, his buttocks, his stomach. By the time his fury has abated and he's come back to himself Lucas is groaning quietly, the floor beneath his face smeared with blood from his cheek and mouth.

When Darshavin draws the knife Lucas begins to fight, struggling violently against his bonds, even managing to pull the chair a couple of inches across the floor with him.

“Why do you fight so hard, Lucas? Do you think I am going to kill you? Do you think I will make it that easy for you?”

Darshavin twists his fingers in Lucas's hair, grinding his injured face against the grit of the cell floor. He shouldn’t enjoy the muffled growls and gasps, or the fact that Lucas is helpless to prevent him pressing his knee hard into his lower back, bearing down with his weight until the man beneath him grunts in pain. But he does. He enjoys the reaction he can force from this infuriating prisoner, enjoys having him powerless and unable to defend himself. Enjoys having him sprawled beneath him, pinned in place and helpless. 

But how to keep hurting him? Hurting him in a way that will really affect him? Keeping his weight firmly on the man underneath him, he shifts position so that he can get the knife’s blade to Lucas’s trousers. The material is thin enough, God knows, and Darshavin makes quick work of the waistband, slicing through it and pressing down through the seat of the trousers until the material is ripped away. The ragged briefs are next, tossed aside with the ruined trousers and his prisoner is now naked from the waist down.

Lucas is silent, muscles tense and breath coming in short, sharp huffs as his body floods with hormones. Slapping his captive’s buttock, hard, Darshavin laughs, a short, ugly sound more akin to a bark than any sound of mirth.

“Fight or flight, Lucas, yes? But now you are not in a position to do either.”

Lucas doesn’t answer. Darshavin looks down at him, taking in the strong, thick thighs and muscular buttocks. Slowly, he reaches down and draws his finger along the cleft between Lucas's cheeks. The noise his captive makes is delicious. Darshavin's lips curl into a tight grin of satisfaction as he presses hard against Lucas's anus, feeling the very second he breaches the tight ring of muscle and begins to force his finger inside.

It's not easy. Lucas is tensed up and tight and fighting him all the way, struggling as hard as he can to pull away from the violation. Darshavin presses down again hard on Lucas with his entire weight, winding him and momentarily stilling his struggles. Darshavin's hard, the sheer physical proximity of Lucas, helpless below him, and the feel of his naked flesh, burning hot against the fabric of his uniform trousers, intoxicating. He rubs his clothed erection against Lucas's thigh, hardening even more as he locates the correct place to probe with his finger to elicit a choked-off gasp from Lucas. 

Darshavin repeats the movement more firmly, rubbing with his thumb against the sensitive skin behind Lucas's testicles, and is rewarded with a quickly-stifled sob as Lucas realises that he is helpless to prevent this violation and humiliation.

When Lucas has ever contemplated rape, as he has with frighteningly increasing regularity during his imprisonment, it has been as a notion of something brutal, and painful, something to be endured. He did not envisage this sheer physical reaction, his body betraying him, complicit in this violation, Darshavin using him sexually in a way that is simultaneously pleasurable and abhorrent. The more Darshavin stimulates him, stroking firmly internally against his prostate whilst at the same time massaging him externally, the more erect his cock becomes, bobbing hard and insistent against his belly. Lucas screws his eyes tight shut, grinding his teeth together so hard they must surely crack, willing his traitorous body to obey him and not to succumb to this humiliation. 

Darshavin is breathing harshly, ignoring his own erection ground against Lucas's thigh as he concentrates on taking the man apart. Lucas is ashen, eyes tightly shut but leaking tears, face pressed to the floor, lips rolled around a single silent syllable.

"No."

Darshavin is determined. He will do all he can to ensure Lucas enjoys his own violation, even though perhaps _enjoy_ isn’t _quite_ the right word. No, it is more the symbolism of it that counts. That, despite the deprivation and the torture and the pain and everything else he inflicts on Lucas, at the very same time Lucas cannot prevent himself orgasming and ejaculating if Darshavin wishes it so. In this way, Darshavin can take away his captive’s very sexual dignity and there is nothing at all Lucas can do to stop him.

Lucas chokes down another sob as he realises that he is rapidly approaching orgasm. As he does so, Darshavin leans down over him, his voice a low burr against Lucas’s ear.

“Come for me, Lucas. Come for me, my little блядь.”

The heat of the other man’s breath against his skin should be disgusting, and it is, but even as Lucas chokes out a long “noooooo” Darshavin wraps his hand around his erection and gives it a few loose pumps, and Lucas is lost.

He comes with a shudder and a wracking sob over his belly and Darshavin’s hand, his face turned to the floor in shame.

Darshavin at last removes his finger from Lucas’s arse and eases up off of him, smearing the come on his one hand down Lucas’s bare thigh and wiping his finger fastidiously on Lucas’s sweatshirt, before licking a long, wet stripe along the shell of his ear.

“You see, Lucas? Not so bad, no? I could have raped you, but I did not. No, instead I made you come.”

When Lucas lies still and unanswering, Darshavin stands. 

“You prefer the water, perhaps, or the electrodes?”

Darshavin shrugs.

“Well, we still have those, of course. But now you know that you can have pleasure instead. So next time, perhaps I give you a choice, yes? Waterboard, or you suck me and then I make you come?”

When Darshavin leaves him, still lying half naked and twisted around the chair, Lucas can only close his eyes and let the tears trickle quietly to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> блядь (pronounced 'blyad') - whore, slut


End file.
